


Imaginary Friend

by MONANIK



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 18th Century, A LOT of Angst, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst and Tragedy, Bilingual Lance (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Crying, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Ghost Keith (Voltron), Ghosts, Growing Up, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Historical References, Horror, Human Lance (Voltron), Hunk & Lance (Voltron) Friendship, Hunk (Voltron) is a Good Friend, Hunk (Voltron) is so Pure, Hurt Keith (Voltron), Imaginary Friends, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Insecure Lance (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith/Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance & Pidge | Katie Holt Friendship, M/M, Murder, Orphan Keith (Voltron), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining Lance (Voltron), Post-Relationship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Shiro is also dead, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Spirits, Supernatural Elements, a lot of fluff, keith is dead, seriously slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-07-23 12:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MONANIK/pseuds/MONANIK
Summary: As any story goes, this one, too, starts with a tragedy.Lance is a freshly-out-of-college adult ready to take on his dreams of becoming a pilot. But before his debut in the skies, he decides to spend some time at home with his family in Ann Arbor where objects vanish and childhood memories resurface, reminding the cuban, to-be pilot of a long forgotten imaginary friend: Keith.





	1. Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how much time I'll manage to spend on this story, since I'm writing two other fanfics at the same time, but I'll do my best and try to finish this before november.  
> Since it's officially spooky month I decided to squirt out some spooky content for yall and, of course, had to include major angst so beware.

_As any story goes, this one, too, starts with a tragedy._

_Though it seems cruel, and at times unjustified, human anger, greed and sorrow usually go hand in hand. Like any other species, it lives to exist. But what happens when you exist… to live? Are you doomed to be forever shunned by your peers, your pack?_

_That was the dilemma our lad faced._

_As any story goes, this one too starts with a conflict based in greed. Humans cannot satisfy with anything less than all there is, so they constantly strive for what’s unattainable— regardless of the outcome. As any story goes, this one too has its layers upon layers of anger and sorrow. Sometimes their anger, their frustration, their losses, shine so bright that they burn those around. Humans light a flame in their agony and spread it in the world, dooming the rest to misery on equal grounds as them._

_Alas, they continue to thrive and live like cockroaches; crawl their way through anything, live on nothing, but refuse to go._

_And so, as any story goes, this one, too, is doomed to burn._


	2. Fuzzy Socks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First two chapters are shorter than the rest will be though they'll all be relatively short. This way I can update much more frequently!

Zapped awake violently by the deafening shrill of his alarm, he sat up groggily. It creaked and groaned in dismay below him; his excuse for a bed on the brink of falling apart in a heap of cheap metal and rusty nails. He reached out and shut off his alarm with a frustrated groan.

When the chilling noise died off, his head crashed back down on his silken-soft pillow. It smelled faintly of drool, sweat and shampoo—and the remains of his nightly skin routine; remorselessly smeared against the feather-soft fabric.

With static in his brain, and insanely bleary morning-vision, he dragged himself out of bed and to his and Hunk’s shared bathroom. He could hear the faint sound of a sizzling pan and an overly excited weathercast guy on the antique radio in the kitchen.

Stopping in the hallway to breath, in and out, he listened to the sound of creaky, chilled windows. Rain tapped against the glass delicately, as if preparing him for the coming winter.

-

 

“What’s for breakfast?”

He took a deep breath—now fully rejuvenated and ready to start the disaster of the day that was to come—and plopped down on one of the wobbly chairs in their tiny kitchen. He’d dressed himself in a dark blue sweater and a pair of washed-out jeans— his feet clad in a mismatched pair of fluffy socks, armored for the cold fall air outside. There’d be a lot of walking to and from the car, he knew.

Around him were boxes of all shapes and sizes, ready to be taken back to where they came from: home.

“A classic: bacon and eggs. Never fails to excite, or fill!” his buddy supplied, as bright as ever regardless of the hour, “I hope you like banana pancakes, because I made those, too.” He added and shot his friend a wink, tray of delicacies in hand.

Aromas of freshly cooked delight wafted through the air and enticed his night-starved stomach.

“Thanks, buddy!” he exclaimed and dove in, “What will I do without you now that we’re going back?” he asked, words muffled behind a slush of chewed pancakes.

His friend merely chuckled.

“Did you forget how amazing your mom’s cooking is?” he asked.

A sudden pang of homesickness vibrated through him at the mention of his mother. Soon he was to meet her again for what felt like the first time in an eternity. College left little wiggle room and being miles apart certainly didn’t aid in his desperate need for some well needed cuddly family time. He visited, of course, but his visits were few and far in between.

Now, after years of tests and assignments, he was finally ready to return as a man with a degree— more than worthy of some home-cooked praise, if you ask him.

“Besides,” the big guy continued, “We still live in the same neighborhood.”

His cheeks filled and puffed up as he chewed. The dark chocolate of his eyes, and the faint flush on his equally as dark cheeks, told Lance everything he needed to know—so he smiled at the sight and dug in.

 

-

 

A moth flew into the kitchen lamp above, over and over, as if stuck on a loop.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prologue contains some hints!


	3. Dagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mother calls for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything in bold text is spoken spanish!

He was greeted with streets painted in reds and browns, coated in what made fall the most beautiful time of year. Okay, second most beautiful. It would be a lie to say Lance didn’t have a special place for summer with its warm sun and ocean trips.

Though the crunchy leaves all around cast a spell over him, captivating him. A cold wind blew through the branches above, chilling his already red nose and cheeks. His hands felt stiff and numb from the cold, cramped around his boxes as if it were a lifeline amidst a raging ocean.

“ **How much more?** ” his mother asked, her hair a disheveled mess of locks, ruffled by the breeze and the excitement of finally reuniting with her son. There was something unique about his mother’s beauty. It radiated a calm he’s never seen in anything, not even in the deepest nooks of the forest.

“ **Just these boxes and my bag and we’re done.** ” He answered, smile not wavering.

“Okay. Come in when you’re done, **food is ready.** ” She said and took his bag inside, leaving the door open behind her.

Their house was nothing special, a typical brick house with a wooden porch. It was old— incredibly old— and huge compared to most houses on their block. Built sometime in the 18-hundreds, it holds stories of old, most untold. He vaguely remembers his gran telling him something about it being an old orphanage, long forgotten and rebuilt to fit a big Cuban family. Anytime he tried to ask more he never got an answer.

 

He threw his box and jacket on the seat by the front door and stepped inside, taking his shoes off in the process and nearly tripping on his own feet trying to enter their kitchen. The entire house smelled of delicious Cuban specialties.

The kitchen swarmed with children and adults of all ages. Everyone decided to come over for dinner upon hearing the news of his arrival. There was his gran: slouched on the chair closest to the window, her favorite. There was his grandfather: as animated and rough as ever, patting his mother on the back so aggressively it sent her into a coughing fit. There was his father, too: sitting stiffly by his gran with little Leo in his lap, Lance’s cousin. His mother stood by Lance’s, helping prepare the food. There were his brothers: Marco and Luis, chatting excitedly and asking questions upon questions about his studies and future. They wanted to know everything there is to know about Delaware. And lastly, there were his sisters: Veronica and Rachel. They were sat next to Marco and Luis, listening to their conversation and occasionally throwing in a comment or question of their own.

All in all, things were good. This was good. If there was one thing Lance adored above everything else it was his family, and now here they were, all of them, together— for him!

They ate their food in lively chatter and laughter, speaking with mouths full and devouring whatever was reachable in front of them. Darkness fell outside the window and so candles were lit, adding to the calm, the happiness he felt. It was all like a sappy Christmas movie, except it was nowhere near time for Christmas just yet. His tiredness from earlier vanished amidst the commotion, and the empty hole he’d felt in his heart for years was finally being filled, slow and steady but to the brim with love and delight.

As the evening came to an end, his cousin and his aunt left, together with his grandpa. Once everyone was settled down in the living room, and the excitement of his arrival had died down somewhat, Lance decided to carry some boxes and the Christmas gifts he’d bought in Delaware to the basement to store them for the approaching holiday.

Except, one of the roughly packed gifts were gone.

It was a delicate, silver bracelet he’d bought for his mother— left in its original box and wrapped in red and white Christmas paper.

“ **Mom, have you maybe seen a red and white present anywhere?** ” he asked upon entering the packed living-room after having searched the entire upper and lower floor.

“ **Present? The little red box, you mean?** ” she asked, “ **Yeah, that one.** ” He said.

His mother shook her head in thought, “ **No, love, last time I saw it was when you brought it inside. Have you gone and lost it already?** ” she asked him, irritation on the tip of her tongue, ready to surface fully.

“No, I haven’t.” he said, “I know where I left it, but now it’s gone! Poof!” he tried explaining, flailing his arms around in mild panic. That gift had cost him a great deal. He was a student after all, barely had enough to pay his tuition, yet he’d managed to work for some cash and bought the silver bracelet for his mother, and now it was gone.

“You don’t think auntie or someone accidentally took it while leaving?” his brother, Marco, asked.

“No, I checked with them already. Grandpa, too.” He said, shoulders dropping in defeat. Maybe he’d finally gone mad, after all, or maybe he was just an idiot, as usual.

Then, his gran spoke up, “ **Maybe it was the boy.** ” She said, gaze distant.

“ **The boy?** ” he heard himself asking, “As in, Leo?” he wondered, confused.

“ **No, silly, the boy in the house.** ” She said it as if it were an explanation, something obvious.

“ **Don’t fill his head with stupid things, mom.** ”

“Whatever. But I’m telling you, **things have been disappearing left and right ever since Lance went to Delaware.** ” His gran shrugged and continued with her stitching, pale fingers working swiftly with the needles.

“ **It’s a big house, and you’re getting old, mom. Things are lost all the time.** ” His mother said, defiant as usual to most things his gran had to say. Lance, however, was intrigued. A ghost, he assumed. His interest was piqued.

“Wait, wait, **what boy?** ” he asked, “ **Well, since you’ve been gone, strange things have been happening round the house, to your mother too. I feel like I’m the one who experiences most of it, since I’m home all the time.** ” His gran started, “ **My things keep disappearing left and right, and as of recent, the others’ things have been missing, too.** ”

“So… our house is haunted…?” he asked, earning himself a frustrated sigh from his mother who was seemingly tired of his presence already.

“ **Yes. By a young man.** ” His gran finished.

“Wait, you’ve seen him—”

“We don’t have time for this, **go down and check in the basement. Maybe you accidentally** **brought it down with the other packages and forgot.** ” His mother interrupted, urging him out of the living room.

He sighed and dragged himself down the creaky stairs to his basement. The lightbulb flickered to life, lighting up the stuffed basement in a cold glow.

The walls were stained and ruined from years of mold, dust and dirt. Floorboards creaked and groaned below his feet in age-old protest, scratches and markings decorating its surface. Some of the nails had loosened and were scattered all around. The roof, as ruined as the walls, was mold-damaged and coated in thick webs.

The basement always gave him chills, partially because of the cool temperature compared to the rest of their overheated house, and partially due to the general atmosphere down there. It was cold and eerily quiet, the part of the house that screamed of its age the most.

He went through his boxes, which stood as a bright contrast against the dusty furniture, boxes, books and other artifacts all around. As his hands worked through them diligently, something out the corner of his eye caught his attention— the stove.

It was an old stove used for heating and possibly even cooking, his gran had informed him. The thing was surprisingly big, considering the time when it had been built and used. It always gave him cold chills— the kind that crawl up your spine and spread through your bloodstream.

 

Hours passed of him working through and around boxes, picking out what was needed and storing away what wasn’t. The entire process might have ben faster if it weren’t for his habit of lingering on every memory which hid in those boxes and amongst the many shelves and corners of their basement.

Just as he was about to finish storing away the last of his bulky boxes, a quick sparkle caught his attention. He turned his head and found to his utter confusion and shock that the bracelet he had been looking for was right there, in the far-right corner, out and naked on one of gran’s antique chairs. Multiple questions surfaced at one. _“Why was it out of its packaging?”_ Being the main one.

So, he stood there, box in hand, and felt his blood run cold in his veins. His previous conversation with his gran resurfaced and clawed at the inside of his skull, begging to be allowed to resurface fully and occupy his mind for months on end. But this time he knew better. He would not let his gran mess with his psyche once again.

A deep breath, and a few long but hesitant strides later he was stood before the lost bracelet. As he reached to pick it up, his eyes landed on a wooden box shoved into the far corner. It was coated with dust and shielded with various objects and packages, completely out of view.

He grabbed the bracelet and shoved it in his back-pocket, hesitant to lean down and pull out the age-old box but doing so anyways. It was a dark brown, muddy color— wet to the touch, too. He gagged once but stilled when he saw the notes written on the front.

_In memory of a brother._

He gulped, sensing the gnawing of his gran’s words at the back of his head, but he shook it off once more and reached to open the old thing.

Inside were various objects: a teddy bear, notes, cards, drawings and rolled up paintings, a knife, a few books, notes, a map, a clock and a handful of photos— all black and white but yellow and faded. The corners were chipped and rough, bits and pieces missing.

He turned one of the photographs around and recoiled at what he saw: a boy. His age, maybe younger by the looks of it, but a boy nonetheless. Something about him reminded Lance of someone he’s known before, but he couldn’t pin-point who.

He was clad in simple clothes, an indication of his low social status; a white button up shirt and a pair of worn, dark pants. His hands were covered in gloves— dark, too— and on his head was a Gatsby hat, dark in color as well.

The boy’s face was stern, a frown etched deep into his features, but something about him made him look incredibly handsome. Maybe it was the way his long, dark, locks framed his face and enhanced his cheekbones, or maybe it was the way his eyes gleamed with something akin to passion.

_Or maybe Lance was just reading too much into it._

He looked at the other photos, all very similar. The boy looked the same in most of them, clad in the same clothes and holding the same stature. In some, he was accompanied by what looked like personnel, in others he was surrounded by children of all ages. Some photos were of him at a young age, as far as Lance could tell. Over all, it was clear in whose memory this was dedicated.

Lance swallowed back the clump that had risen to the top of his throat. All these pictures of the same, sad boy— so young and full of life— reminded him of how fleeting life is. He didn’t look like he lived a happy life, for every picture was of him frowning, every picture but one.

In this picture, the boy was a child. It wasn’t a photography, but a drawing in coal. It was incredibly well drawn, detailed and realistic, and it was of the boy smiling. He couldn’t have been older than four when it had been drawn.

It _ached_ to see.

Something in him told him to put the box away and forget about it, never touch it again, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His hands shook where they were holding onto the drawing. Lance felt himself taking a deep breath and then continued, curiosity getting the better of him. The worn teddy bear inside was incredibly dirty and ruined from years of usage and neglect. It made his skin crawl from the mere thought of the kinds of germs and insects which must be crawling through the fabric, nested between its folds and inside its stuffing.

He put it down and looked through some more drawings. It appeared as if some of them were drawn by one person, and the others by another, for they differed in style and expression.

Fingers grazed the blade at the bottom of the box delicately, hesitantly. Its sleek and metallic surface made him shiver, but he picked it up and studied it anyways.

A purple emblem had been painted onto the handle, the rest looking like a simple dagger. Something about it made it feel as though it had been well taken care of. Maybe it was the cleanliness of it or the weight, heavy enough to feel sturdy and dangerous in his hand. A perfect fit for a man with a frown.

 

As his fingers brushed the edge of one of the letters, a voice called for him. It sounded distant, so he naturally assumed it was his mother who called him for help.

Of course, when he had put the box away and picked up the last of his stuff, and left to see what his mother needed of him— her answer was confusion.

“ **Love, I never called for you.** ” She said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually very proud of how this chapter turned out.  
> Turns out writing fanfiction in history class really makes your imagination spring to life~
> 
> (don't write fanfiction in class, kids)


	4. Haunting Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a hollow night.

How strange— the blatant confusion— but like any sane person he chose to ignore it. Storing it safely in the back of his head, he continued with his night, finished his skin routine, kissed his family goodnight, and went to bed.

 

-

 

_It was cold outside, hauntingly so. The type of cold you want to hide and cover from. You know what I’m talking about._

_Not Christmas cold, or morning-before-school cold— it was deathly cold. Like the cold you associate with the breeze in a horror story, or the howling wind amongst trees in a haunted forest._

_On a night like this, it’s only natural to hide, to protect oneself from the slaughter outside. So, I tiptoed through the creaky halls and down the dusty staircases. Nothing is ever quite as pleasant as the warmth down there where the retired butler Simon spends his nights._

-

 

A creak, a tap— and he awoke. Startled awake by the lonely night and the rumbling rain; eager to enter and steal part of his warmth, too.

Rubbing his tired eyes, he cursed whatever entity ruined his beauty sleep for what was arguably the millionth time. Quite literally, actually. Well, at least in this house.

He’s always been uneasy about his room, and about the age-old house in general. Ever since his 15th birthday he’s been begging them to move, to find something better and newer. Alas, his parents are as dense as the bricks which hold this portal to hell together.

Nothing on earth could have prepared him for growing up. When he turned 14, that’s when things went south. Ever since his 14th birthday nothing has been quite the same.

Despite his uneasiness about the house, it holds memories within its cursed walls so dear he would gladly have his ass haunted than give them up. No one could take that away from him, the reminiscence behind foggy windows and above creaky floorboards.

 

Though, that wouldn’t change his inability to sleep properly at night. For years he’s been having reoccurring dreams— like snippets of memories, but they’re not his own. Every time he has one of these dreams the narrator in his mind is not himself, the house looks different, and the atmosphere is heavy. They’re nightmares but without the horror aspect to them. Just pure terror, something unknown lurking in his peripheral.

Now, they never seem to reach a climax. Every night it’s the same movie over and over again. Usually, there’s a minor change in scenery or even situation, but most of the time it’s the same dream about a stormy night and ice-cold winds howling amongst the trees out of his field of vision.

Not once have these dreams linked properly or answered any questions. There’s always someone there, nearby, but he doesn’t know who— cannot turn his head if so his life depended on it— like his mind is a mere vessel for the narrator in his head. There’s always a staircase, and the bone-chilling basement— or rather its door. Then, there’s always something about Butler Simon. Who this person is Lance has no idea. Neither does he know what happens next, or why the air seems so heavy in these dreams. They always end right there— with Butler Simon.

 

He’s never been much of a superstitious person (not in truth, possibly in lie and fun), despite being a scardey-cat. Though Lance likes to think of himself as quite brave when time calls for it, at least in most scenarios.

So, he crawled his way out of bed and out of his room. The hallway outside was cold, as was the rest of the house. The heating system doesn’t work well at night, something wrong with the pipes or other is what they told them.

He shudders dramatically, hands rubbing his arms in rapid motions to create some temporary warmth as he saunters over to the kitchen where he knows his gran is knitting, as always. Since childhood, his gran has never been one for sleep. Maybe it’s because she stays at home for the most part, where local customers visit to have their hair cut from time to time. It leaves her with plenty of energy to spare. Energy she uses to knit sweaters and scarfs for Lance to wear against his will. Not that they’re uncomfortable— his Gran has a talent for making everything feel good on his skin— but may God forgive him they’re absolutely hideous. Instead, he opts to wear them around the house.

 

Walking into the still lukewarm kitchen, he’s greeted with his gran’s well-aged and calm visage, cordial and hearty as always. She smiled when he entered, not startled by his 3AM visit in the least.

In the living-room, the antique grandfather clock sounded.

“ **Sleepless night?** ” his grandmother asked, eyes not moving from the needles in her hands.

“Something like that.” He said and walked over to the fridge, rummaging for a while before stealing a few salami-slices. He barely chews before swallowing, “Keep having weird dreams.”

“Weird dreams?”

“Yeah,” he started, eyes searching for something edible, “They’re like snippets of a memory, but it’s not mine.” He tries explaining, mind on the fridge, “Or at least I don’t think they are. **Maybe I’m just delusional.** ”

His gran scoffed quietly behind him. He listened to the sound of her knuckles cracking with every swift motion and every memorized move of her needles.

“ **I don’t think your mother understands the severity of the situation.** Don’t let her dull your light.”

He turned to look at her, brow crooked and lips turned into a vicious frown. Between his index finger and thumb were two slices of pepperoni.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I mean, **loverboy.** ” She simply said, eyes still locked on the task at hand. She pondered for a moment, before glancing over to the chair in front of her, “But if you really want to know, **I’ll tell you.** ”

Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. No?

He took a hesitant seat by his gran, who was so focused on her task that she couldn’t spare him even the quickest of glances. Her grey hair fell around plum cheeks and soft ears, curling in all the right and wrong places. It was like a bird’s nest upon her head, but delicate and deliberate all at once.

They sat there in silence for a while before he finally mustered up the courage to speak. He wasn’t sure this was the right thing to do and feared whatever was to come out of his crazy gran’s mouth.

Still, he cleared his throat, “So…”

Silence.

“Is our… is our house really, you know… is it—”

“ **Haunted? Yes.** ”

Maybe he’d known all along— it was so blatantly clear— but to hear it said out loud was certainly like a slap in the face. A wakeup call from yet another freaky film.

“ **How do you know that?** ” he asked.

“ **You mean to tell me you don’t?** **Are you blind, son, or just an idiot?** Have you not seen or heard anything?” she asked, her brows furrowed. He wasn’t sure whether that was from confusion, irritation or the task at hand, “Do you at least know the story?” she asked.

“No! How could I when you never wanted to tell me in the first place?”

“Because your silly mother doesn’t like the truth, that’s why I never said a thing.”

He watched her work for a moment and thought of the sentence not willing to surface. Unsure of how to ask, he was left floating aimlessly.

“Then,” he said, “Will you tell me now?”

She finally looked up at him, blue meeting blue in perfect harmony. His ocean against her icebergs.

“ **If you promise not to tell your mother.** ”

An easy laughter bubbled up from within his stomach and behind his ribs, “I promise! I promise!” he assured happily, now fully engaged. He felt like a child around burning, crackling fireplace.

His gran lowered her needles and looked to the entrance of the kitchen where pearls hung from the top in straight lines. They clinked against each other gently anytime someone entered the room or walked by fast in the hallway.

“This mansion was built in the 18-hundreds by a man named Edward Morphic. **He was a man of splendid fame and honor, and held much to his name, like the rights to acres upon acres of prize-worthy land**. **In his youth, he began working on this building and finished it just in time for a new orphanage to settle into**.” She took a sip from the mug in front of her, the liquid a deep red like that of coagulated blood, “Over the years, the mansion along with the orphanage grew. It quickly became a hotspot for soon-to-be parents and personnel alike. But one day, something terrible happened. During one of Macy Starlings patrols through the house, **she discovered the corpse of a young mistress by the name of Amanda.** **Her body was found hanging from the ceiling in the attic, swinging gently from side to side**.”

His gran returned to her knitting, unbothered by the topic. Almost as if telling him of her day, not of the horrendous nightmare that is their shared family home. She continued,

“And that’s when everything changed. Nothing was ever normal in this house. **Strange things started happening,** and as time went on more and more people were found dead in the house. Some hung from ceilings, other’s drowned in their blood and tears— most dead in unexplained accidents. The Ann Arbor Orphanage was never quite the same again. **Reports from guests and personnel came in** **claiming that the place is haunted by multiple tortured souls**.” She finished, taking a sip of her hot beverage, “Oh, right, **there’s been reports of a poltergeist, too. A rowdy young man with one hell of a temper!** ”

Lance sat still in his seat, unsure of how to respond or react. Is he supposed to cover in fright or scream first? He wasn’t sure, so he opted for obtaining more knowledge.

“Young man… is that… is that ‘the boy’ you were talking about earlier?” he asked, his hands cold against bare thighs. Something in the air had changed dramatically, and the room dropped in temperature. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

His gran stopped and contemplated her reply.

“Did you find the necklace?” she asked instead.

He frowned. Were they fucking with him? Why was everyone treating him like a little kid. Surely, he’s perfectly capable of hearing bullshit campfire-stories from his gran at his age? Apparently not, if you ask his family. Apparently— to them— he’s still a little baby in need of constant supervision, so that he won’t cut himself on one of the loose nails.

He sighed, ready to leave, “Yeah, yeah…” he said dismissively, “I found it. It was out of the box on one of the chairs down in the basement. Leo must have played a trick on me.” He said and got up, but before he turned to leave his gran spoke, eyes still on her knitting but her hands palsying.

“How kind of him. He never returns my things.”

His eyes flew back to her face, searching for something akin to a joke, a prankster’s grin, but his gran remained stoic. The temperature dropped once more, he shivered as a cold chill enveloped his naked arms. Maybe a window had been left open somewhere…

He didn’t dare to look.

“What— what do you mean…?” he asked.

Once more she looked up at her grandson, but her eyes were cold and flickering from side to side.

“Every day I lose something, and never is it ever returned to me. **At first I thought I’d finally went and gone crazy! Old hag as I am. But as it turns out, your mother and father keep losing things, too. As do your siblings. Then, one day, I saw him.** ”

She pursed her lips, pausing for a moment. With a quick nod she ushered for him to sit down again. He did.

“You saw him?”

“I did. And, oh, was he a beauty. There were flames in his eyes, red and angry. But he was truly handsome. Delicate but firm all at once.” Something distant and dreamy flooded her features, “ **I thought I was hallucinating, but then he spoke to me.** It was short and quick and so quiet I could barely make out what he was saying, except for a single word.”

Without having realized it he was now leaning over the table, eyes blown wide and ears practically tilting to adjust— to hear every word as if they were his own.

“What did he say?”

She put down her tools and glanced over his shoulder towards the door.

“Your name.” she said.

 

The pearls behind him clinked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deleted and reposted this because the first draft was horrendous! >:(


	5. The first letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a lovely, lonely place.

_November 5 th 1809_

_From: Lakeshore_

_Silly, but I could swear to the Lord that I keep hearing your name being brought up constantly. Are you perhaps haunting me everywhere I go? What could be the reason?_

_Of course, I am talking about your riding. They say you are among the best! How proud I am of you._

_Now, do not get me wrong but I would love to see such claims for myself before I ever accept them as truth. I love you, but you have a tendency to enchant with very little. Perhaps they are simply stepping way out of line._

_Sometimes, I stay awake at night and reminisce the times when you and I were still so young. Well, not that we are not now, but back then you were only a child. So small and unprotected. How lucky you are to have me shield your back! Do you miss me?_

_Because I miss you..._

_Everything here reminds me of you. It is in the little things, like the shielded streets in the midst of the day, or the rowdy breeze at night. I spoke to Alfor, and as it turns out he is expecting to become a father! Can you believe it? Such joyous news, truly. Mrs. Altea is as good as can be, healthy and alert and incredibly youthful in her pregnancy. I wish they knew you. I am sure they would love you almost as strongly as I do!_

_…_

_I spoke to father about you and regret to inform that he was less than willing to help. I am so sorry, but I promise to do all that is in my might to help you. I refuse to let you rot in that place, as twisted and foul as it is._

_And I know you will not reply, as with all my letters, but I beg of you to at least give me a sign you are alive._

_The silence is killing me._

_With love,_

_S_


	6. Creak, Creak, Creak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scratch, scratch, scratch.

A love story between two family members, perhaps. At least it seemed like it to Lance. Nonetheless— regardless of— a blotch of ink smeared on the paper where a single tear had fallen. Something about it was so familiarly touching and hollow. It left him breathless for air, because it reminded him so strongly of his bond with his brothers and sisters. There was nothing quite like that, which made it all the more easy to pinpoint.

He was truly shaken as he delicately placed the folded piece of paper back in the box.

Since his nightly adventure, he’d become all the more paranoid of the basement. Still, he just had to read the letters; so he dashed down the stairs, picked up the box, turned on his heel and sprinted out the basement and didn’t stop until he reached his room on the second floor.

With his breath in his throat he picked up the lid and scrambled to read the first letter of quite a few.

 

Nothing in them told him much, or explained what exactly happened last night. When Lance had swiftly turned his head— drenched in panic— nothing stood there. No fierce boy caught his eyes from the entrance, but whatever entity lingered he felt below his skin.

There was nothing for his eyes to see, but plenty for his skin to feel; for his hair to catch; for his heart to hear.

Now he sat there, in his bedroom, with a musty box from before his birth placed on his soft, silken sheets and wedged between his legs.

 

Who was _S_ , and why did they love this person so much? Is _S_ the brother who filled the box? Or is _S_ the dead person in question? Does _the Boy_ from gran’s story have anything to do with the boy in the picture?

What was his name? He wondered.

 

 

Then, the first step creaked.

 

And the second step creaked.

And the third step creaked.

 

Then, it stopped.

Lance didn’t dare to move.

 

If his house had taught him one thing, it was to listen for the footsteps of fellow family members. He knew them all by heart at this point. Since his room was on the second floor, the differently coded creaking, clomping and tapping of their feet as they went up the stairs spoiled to him who was about to enter without permission or slink their way below his sheets.

Except these footsteps were not his family’s.

 

And most hauntingly— what chilled the bones from within, what stopped the rhythm of his heart— he was home alone.

 

Everyone was out for the day, going about their business. Lance came much too early for anyone to be on Christmas break or vacation, so the house stood empty during the day.

Well, _almost…_ empty.

Aside from him, no one else should be walking up the stairs. The front door never unlocked, no voices ever called for him from downstairs. Whoever was slowly creaking their way up his stairs was no one he knew.

 

Creak, the angry stairs continued.

Creak, and the intruder was further up.

Creak, they were almost there.

 

The stranger’s footsteps were light, but they had a lingering feeling of heaviness behind them. Like the slow approach of a hungry predator, lurking amongst tall grass. Ready to pounce.

 

Creak, the old stairs continued.

 

And Lance’s brain finally caught on. The nearest thing he had was the box, but he refused to throw that or even show it. He quickly picked it up— unsure of why he was being so protective of the musky thing— and shoved it underneath his bed. The next best thing was his bed-lamp, which he unplugged and held with both hands like a baseball player ready to hit a homerun.

 

Creak, the old stairs continued.

Then it stopped.

…

 

Nothing. No sound, no movement. Had he imagined the entire thing? Was he really growing so paranoid as to seriously consider that someone had broken into his house? It was an old house, those made noises. Surely, no one would be standing outside his door when he opened it?

Or maybe he should bring the lamp, after all.

 

So he did. With his heart in his throat, he approached the door, lamp in hand ready to swing. He took a deep breath and listened for sound but heard nothing but the whistling wind outside and the cracking and groaning of the windows in his room.

In one swift motion he pulled the handle down and swung the door open, lifted his lamp and was just about to swing at—

…

No one.

The hallway outside his room stood empty, but just to be sure he walked down the stair and checked the front door. Locked. He took a stroll around the house, checked every door and window to make sure no one had broken in. For the sake of his safety, he checked the basement and attic and every possible hiding place as well. Still, he found nothing.

Classic, his gran had played his psyche again.

With a heavy sigh, and a slump in posture, he made creaks of his own as he walked up the stairs. From the middle step, he could see the door to his room clearly, which stood wide open as he’d left it. Except… the box underneath the bed— which stood right in front of the opening, horizontal to the window and the door— was pushed out. Did he perhaps in his haste not shove it far enough? He merely shrugged and plopped back down on the bed, checking the time on his phone as he did: Four-fifty, time for his family to slowly begin to fill the house.

Then, the box moved.

Slowly, so horrifyingly slowly it dragged itself further from the bed until it was sat parallel to it. He couldn’t rip his eyes off it. And that’s when he heard it.

The scraping of nails against hardwood floors. Slow and deliberate, creating a rhythm in the silence. The scraping was so obvious Lance could almost feel it— the sharp nails— as they raked across his delicate skin. Goosebumps rose, and his brain short-circuited.

 

He swallowed, so mortified he felt like fainting, but leaned over the bed slowly. His eyes never closed, not even for a blink. Slowly, the bottom of the bed— the darkness underneath— came into view.

And in the darkness was a face.

Pale, with two eyes blown wide and dead, boring into his. The figure was akin to human, squeezed between the floor and the bed, its head turned towards Lance. A hand scraped the floor by its left shoulder.

 

Lance didn’t dare to move, to make a single noise. He watched the figure, cold and dead but very much animated as it stared right back. Its eyes never shifted.

 

And then, finally, he screamed. Screamed and jumped back on the bed, ripped at the tucked in covers and hid underneath, quivering of fright. What was he supposed to do? Panicking, he realized that his phone was still out on the table by the bed. As quickly as he could, he decided, he would reach out from underneath and grab it to dial the police, his family— anyone. So he did, but he didn’t grab the phone. Instead, a cold hand grabbed ahold of his.

 

He screamed again, much louder than before— a deafening shriek even to his own ears. He kicked and pushed and scratched and clawed. He wasn’t ready to die.

And as the thought entered his head, a voice filled the room.

 

“Lance! Lance! Stop kickin— LANCE. It’s just ME! Lance!”

The voice sounded so incredibly familiar and welcoming that he could do nothing but exactly what was asked of him. Finally, he stopped screaming, but remained underneath the covers only for them to be torn away.

Above him loomed the same figure, though nowhere near as dead looking. This time, its face was that of shock and worry and its features not as cold and blue as seconds before.

He spoke again,

“Are you OK? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you shit yourself.” He said.

It sounded like an off-handed pick at his fragile ego and the way he’d just screamed his lungs sore, but it was drowning in truthful regret and worry.

Lance furrowed his brows. He observed the face in front of him for what felt like ages when it finally clicked.

 

“Keith…?”

 

The boy from the picture stood still, almost as if recreating it anew. His expressions went through hundreds of emotions before finally setting on relief.

“You remember.” He smiled at him, “Thought for sure that you’d forgotten.”

He didn’t understand. _Keith?_ His childhood imaginary friend, the one he’d had so many tea parties with, so many made-up memories with— was the ghost in his house, the boy in the pictures?

“H—how…” he croaked and then coughed, clearing his throat, “How are… you’re…”

“I’m your friend, remember?” he asked, an attempt at helping him along but causing all the more confusion.

“You’re my imaginary friend.”

He said it more as a statement than a question, a confirmation for himself, but Keith answered anyways.

“Yeah.”

“But… you’re dead, right?” he asked.

To this, his reaction was different. Suddenly, something mournful came over Keith’s face and it slowly morphed back into something hauntingly similar to what he’d seen underneath the bed, just much less terrifying. The temperature dropped like the night before.

“I thought you knew that.” He said, sorrowfully to the core.

“I— no! How could I know? I was a kid…” he started, unsure of whether riling up the poltergeist in his house was truly the best idea, “…I was certain I’d made you up…” he said, “You even stopped appearing after my 13th birthday or something…!”

“Because you didn’t want me to, remember?”

But Lance didn’t remember, and he probably never would. He wasn’t sure of what to say, or how to act anymore, so he looked down at his hands— red and stiff from the lack of circulation in them. They were still shaking violently.

Another covered them. Gently, with so much affection, he placed his hand above Lance’s quivering ones.

“Let’s take one thing at a time, shall we?” he asked.

Lance nodded, and the front door opened. Through the house came the singing sound of his family’s voices as they called for him. He turned his head towards the door for only a moment before he turned it back towards Keith— except he wasn’t there anymore.

Lance was all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do leave a comment and let me know what you think because I'm actually happy with how this chapter turned out!


End file.
